Edge of the World
by ncfan
Summary: Beatrice, in labor.


This is a spiritual successor to a oneshot I wrote back in December, _A Bright Strip of Sunlight_. You don't have to read that to understand what's going on here, but you can go read it, if you like. If you go looking for it, though, know that it's M-rated, and _please _read the content warning note at the top of the page before going any further.

**TRIGGER WARNING**: This work deals with the aftermath of rape and the psychological effects of it. The assault itself will not be shown in detail, but I'm still detailing the fallout. I also want to issue a warning for childbirth.

I own nothing.

* * *

The months wore on from that day. To Beatrice, every day since the day she first noticed the way her stomach was starting to stretch, she seemed to grow more ungainly. With each day her belly expanded a little more and her back began to hurt a little more. A cold settled in her bones, and the world seemed to grow darker, duller—and it was not merely the onset of winter. She felt as though the thing growing inside of her belly (_parasite, bloodsucker, every day that it grew stronger she grew weaker_) was sapping the life away from her.

She felt no kinship to the thing that everyone told her was her child, just waiting to be born. As the months drew on and the weather grew colder, Kumasawa and Hana and Misaki readied Kuwadorian for the arrival of this child. One of the bedchambers was opened up and aired out. They set catalogues out before her, of cradles and bassinets and clothing and all else, asking her what she would like the most.

"_Beatrice-sama?"_

_Beatrice fixes her blue eyes, slightly out of focus from having been staring at a bright gray winter sky, on her nurse. Kumasawa has yet another catalogue in her hands. She smiles at Beatrice, and that smile almost looks like one truly bereft of concern. But there's a tiredness in her eyes as she holds the catalogue out to her charge. "Beatrice-sama, I have another catalogue the master wishes you to look over."_

_For a moment, Beatrice does nothing, and instead sits still like a life-sized doll, feeling like a ghost in her clothes. Another catalogue. Does Kinzo really think that this, of all things, being plied with still more material goods, will heal the hole in her heart? That hole has already spread and splintered; she is cracking like an egg. It's too late to fix them now. Too late to fix her._

_However, when the moment passes and Beatrice can find the circulation in her limbs again, she fixes a smile that only works on one side to her mouth, and accepts the catalogue with a nod and says "Thank you, Kumasawa-san."_

_When what she wanted to say was "Please help me."_

She had counted the days with trepidation as her belly steadily continued to swell. She had nightmares of some slimy thing splitting her stomach in two and climbing out, over and over again, and spoke of them to no one. With each day, her fear grew, and sleep evaded her night after night—not that she wanted much to sleep, for dreams of being cut open from the inside out were not the only nightmares Beatrice had.

Perhaps the only good thing to come of her burgeoning stomach was Kinzo's prolonged absence. His visits became less and less frequent once he learned of her condition, and once her stomach began to visibly swell, he stopped coming altogether. It was marginally easier for Beatrice to keep from falling to pieces altogether, without him there, either trying to behave as though nothing had ever happened, or kept trying to touch her, hug her, hands shaking, roaming—

That simply could not be borne. Not anymore.

Beatrice did not hate Kinzo. She was not to that point yet. But he was the nightmare of her waking hours and the phantom haunting the edge of the shadows of her room at night. He was the reason her skin crawled at the slightest human touch. He was the reason she could not smile, the reason the servants whispered behind their hands at the sight of her unkempt hair, bloodshot eyes, constantly wet cheeks, and scarlet nostrils. She did not want to see him. She didn't think she ever really wanted to see him again.

The pain ripples deep in her groin, again.

She thinks that she would choose to live totally alone, if she had a choice.

It started this morning.

"_Kumasawa-san…" _

_Kumasawa does not look up at first, deeply absorbed by the morning dusting. "What is it, Beatrice-sama?"_

_Her eyes fill with tears. "Kumasawa-san," Beatrice croaks. "Please, help me." Her legs crumple and she topples to the ground._

_The older woman turns on her heel sharply at the timbre of her charge's voice and the thud of Beatrice's body hitting the floor. She sees the young girl doubled over on the carpet, tears streaming down her ashen face, clutching her midsection, the skirt of her nightgown drenched with blood and amniotic fluid and clinging to her legs._

_Kumasawa does something Beatrice rarely ever sees her do._

_She screams._

It started this morning, and Beatrice just wants it to stop. A small pain at first—she just thought she had stomach cramps, and brushed it off; no need to bother anyone over stomach cramps, that's not nearly important enough to bother someone over. But then, the pain grew greater, and greater, and greater. Pain drove through her groin, spreading upwards, downwards, outwards. Every inch of her was full of pain, bristling, burning, shaking, screaming. And then, fluid slid down her legs, fluid mixed with blood, stinking so badly that she was nearly driven to nausea, and Beatrice knew she couldn't ignore this any longer.

Kumasawa ran and got Genji; he lifted her up off the ground as though she was made of air, not a young woman with something growing inside of her, and now trying to force its way out. He held her the way a father might have, had the man Beatrice thought of as "Father" been the sort of man who wouldn't do this to her. They told her "the baby is coming now." She was brought to a dark room, laid out on a bed with no sheets, and told that she would see "her child" soon.

Beatrice screams, and screams again. Her dignity is forgotten, her sense of decorum forgotten. She does not care the way sweat runs in rivulets down her back and chest. She does not care how her breast heaves with every labored breath. She does not care how her hair is rancid with sweat and sticking to her neck and cheeks, doesn't care how her nightgown has completely slipped off her left shoulder, how her eyes are out of focus and staring up at the ceiling, or how her legs are spread obscenely wide. "_Ah_…" she gasps. "_Ah_…" She feels as though she will never find breath again, not enough to sustain her. All that matters anymore is the pain.

"Easy, child." If she were in any state to notice such things, Beatrice might be surprised to hear Kumasawa call her anything but "Beatrice-sama." She is, however, aware of the relief brought by the cool, wet rag her nurse dabs against her forehead and cheeks. "It will all be over soon enough. You just have to push. Push, child," Kumasawa whispers, one hand dabbing a rag on her cheek, the other rubbing her left shoulder.

Beatrice stares past her, the screams dying in her cracked and raw throat. The pain is worse now—she's not sure how that's even possible, but she's gone from feeling like she might die to feeling as though she _will _die; surely there has never been pain such as this. She lies poised at the edge of some great beyond, at a threshold. What lies on the other side, Beatrice does not know, and does not wish to know. She feels as though she's about to topple off the side of a cliff—more so than she already has, that is. Not for the first time, not for the thousandth time, not for the ten thousandth time, she wishes that the past nine months could be taken back and unmade, that she could go back to her state of wistful bliss, where the worst thing about her life was that she was never allowed beyond the fence.

She wishes…

Beatrice doesn't know what she wishes. The agony that flames and curls within her erases all awareness of her wishes and dreams. It does leave intact her barest memories, however.

Kinzo did this. This is all because of him, and what he did to her. Lost in a tossing sea of pain, Beatrice can no longer claim to feel no enmity towards him. She forgets half-hearted not-quite-forgiveness, forgets guilt, forgets shame, forgets confusion. She remembers that this is happening because of… She knows that this never would have happened, had he not…

A choking sob rises in her throat. Beatrice still has a hard time connecting that day in her bedchamber, lying crudely naked and mortified beneath him, holding still and keeping quiet out of terror and confusion and _just wanting it to stop_, and what is happening now. She doesn't understand how _that _could lead to _this. _But she knows that this wouldn't be happening, had he not done what he had.

_Was this what you wanted, then? _A stab of pain, somehow worse than everything that came before, twists in her groin. _You wanted me to have "a child." You wanted me to be a mother. Why? Why didn't you explain it, then?_

_I feel no kinship to this thing, you know. I don't really understand how I came to be this way, don't understand. This can't be my child, and this can't be my story. This can't be the way my life is supposed to be. This can't be the way it's supposed to end._

There comes a horrible tearing noise, and Kumasawa urging her on. "Push, child, push!"

She's sure she's going to die.

She's almost disappointed when she doesn't.


End file.
